


Surprise

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt takes Dom on a surprise roadtrip in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprise

Before my eyes fully open with the sudden influx of light, he is up and pulling at my arm fit to rip it off to get me out of bed, jabbering excitedly, "You awake yet? Yeah? Oh, good-oh, you are. Come on, up, up, up, let's go. Road trip!!!" On a Sunday. At fuck o'clock.

And because I'm a fool in love, instead of smacking the back of his head and telling him to get back in bed and into my arms where he should be by rights at such an ungodly hour, I let him rush me through an abbreviated morning routine and hustle me out of the flat and into absolute darkness without even a cup of tea to get me going.  
  
"Where are we going?" I ask, because, come on, the streets haven't even been rolled out yet, and I swear to god, I can hear wolves howling in the distance. I'm hoping for a response that makes sense but, knowing him, I tell myself it is a forlorn hope and, sure enough, I'm not disappointed. Flashing his crooked tooth at me in one of his insufferably twatty yet ridiculously adorable grins, he answers, "That's for me to know and you to find out."

Suppressing a sigh, I allow him to tow me down the street to the car, while I wonder what got up his oh, so luscious arse this morning—and no, it most definitely wasn't me. He never even gave me a chance.

He gets in the car and starts the engine while I stand on the kerb debating going back to our lovely warm bed and letting him carry on with whatever cracked new scheme his brain has concocted.

Before logic has a grip on me, though, he leans over to open my door and, ducking his head to to look at me through the opening, asks, "You coming or what?" Instead of answering 'what' and turning on my heel, I nod like the bloody idiot I am and get in.

By the time we are motoring our way out of London, I am completely weirded out. He is positively chipper, happily chatting away about nothing. I stare at him as the landscape flashes past us—or at least I'm assuming it does, because it is still pitch black out there—trying to work out who the guy driving is and what he's done with the man who needs to be approached with extreme caution before he has his first cup of tea in the morning.

By the time we get off the motorway to drive along country lanes, the headlights boring a hole thorough the dark, I finally resign myself to make the most of the situation and try to catch up on my interrupted sleep.

Poke.

"You're not going to sleep on me, are you?" the annoying little shit has the affront to pout at me, as if I have wounded him deeply by my lack of attention to his stream of consciousness prattle. I look at him incredulously, trying to find the fortitude of character not to throw something at him, "You bet your skinny arse I am. In case you haven't noticed it's the middle of the night out there."

"Rude." he answers, poking his tongue at me, "and after I take you on a romantic outing, too." I'm afraid my voice goes up a couple of octaves, "Romantic?!?!?! Driving off into goodness knows where in the middle of the fucking night? How is this even remotely romantic?"

Oh, great, well done, man. Now he is genuinely upset, his face falling as he fixes his eyes back on the road. "Sorry, I thought you'd like a surprise." he says quietly, slowing down, "We can go back if you want." Feeling really guilty at bursting his bubble, I reach over to thread my fingers through his hair, "No, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to spoil your surprise. I'm just cranky. Surprise away."

"Ok." he says happily, and his smile as he looks at me makes it all worth it; I don't know anyone who can put as much light and love and joy into a smile as he does. I sigh as he takes my hand and places it on his thigh, covering it with his and lacing our fingers together.

Leaning back on the seat, I tell myself to stop being a grumpy arse, get with the programme, and enjoy his surprise, whatever it is. It takes so little to make him happy, with this child-like ability he has to delight in the smallest things, that denying him feels like a sin.

And once I stop grousing about the early start, I realise that there are worse things than a road trip with him, sitting back comfortably with my hand held in his, watching his beautiful profile as he drives, and enjoying the rare privilege of listening to him singing quietly to himself.

I really am a lucky sod, come to think of it.

"Do I get any clues about this surprise, then?" I ask him to get into the spirit of things. "Nope." he answers, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Oh, come on, not even one?" I whine, "That's not fair." He just giggles and shakes his head, "Nope. But you can guess." I squint at him, knowing his little ways, "Will you tell me if I do guess?" His hand tightens on mine and he grins briefly at me, "Yeah, ok, that's fair."

Right, it would appear I'm already ahead of the game. The runty sod likes to keep these guessing games of his going for hours—he has been known to keep them up for days, if it's worth the effort—even after I do come up with the right answer, just to torture me.

"But you'll never guess." he goes on with a flash of wonky tooth. I sigh. We know one another too well, the bugger really knows exactly how to set the hook in. "Ok, smartarse, you're on."

So we while away the time in a back and forth game of me coming up with increasingly wild and ridiculous guesses and him finding it increasingly difficult to say "Nope." with a straight face, until we are both giggling like little kids at my more creative suggestions.

"Octopus humping?" he laughs so hard at that one that for a moment the car wobbles across lanes, and I worry we're going to run right off the road. Much though I love his laughter, a fireball death in the middle of nowhere is not very appealing, so I decide enough is enough. "Ok, I give up, you win. I'll be extremely surprised."

Win-win. We avert a fiery death and I get a resplendent smile and a satisfied 'Cool!' from him, because few things make him happier than winning. Or surprises.

We drive in companionable silence for a while, the radio tuned to BBC3. We have this rule: whoever drives gets to choose the music, so classical it is. Which is fine, it suits the quiet mood we've fallen into after the laughter, and turns the darkness that surrounds us into a soothing, peaceful bubble of stillness.

I smile as I feel his fingers twitching in my hand in time with a piano piece, knowing that he's playing along in his head, and I can't help the urge to squeeze his hand gently, the sight of him lost in music never failing to make my heart flutter in my chest.

His hand disengages from mine briefly to flip palm up so we can hold hands properly, and he looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face. I just smile at him and, piling blessings on automatic transmission, bring our joined hands to my lips to kiss his knuckles. His eyes soften as they hold mine for a few seconds, and then he brings his attention back to the road, a secretive little smile on his lips.

I rearrange myself to bring one leg up under me and half turn towards him so I can look at him. I never tire of the sight of him. To me there's nothing more beautiful on this earth than his sharp, ferret-like features and pale, painfully skinny body. And right now, in the dash's light, a far away expression on his face as he drives, he looks ethereal, a mysterious creature of light and shadow, and my heart clenches with love for him.

"God, I love you!" I blurt out. The shadows accentuate the dimple that blooms to bracket his wide smile, and his hand tightens on mine again, "Yeah?" he asks teasingly, eyes still on the road crinkling in mischief. "Yeah." I breathe out, putting everything I have into that inadequate word. He looks at me then, and I whimper at the blue fire in his eyes as he says, "Just as well, because in case you haven't noticed, I love you more than a sane person should love another."

"Stop the car." I say quietly, my voice a low growl. "Wha...?” Before he can finish I cut him off, "Stop the car, right now." With a sideways look at me, he does as he's told, indicating and slowing down to a stop against the low hedge on the side of the road. He's hardly had time to turn the engine off before my hands are on him, unhitching his seatbelt and pulling him across the console between the seats to sit on my lap.

My hand fists in his hair to bring his mouth crashing down on mine, and he opens to me, responding to my overwhelming need with a need of his own. A tiny portion of my brain scoffs at two grown men snogging like teenagers in an increasingly fogged up car, but the rest of me doesn't care, because he's mine, and his lips moving on mine are sin and heaven rolled into one, and his angular body feels so good wrapped around me that I could happily die right now.

Panting for breath we come apart, his forehead resting against mine. "What was that?” he asks breathlessly, his hands cupping my face as he lifts his head to look at me, "Not that I'm complaining, mind." I shake my head slightly, a rueful smile on my lips, "I don't know. I just... I needed to kiss you." His grin is priceless; sweet and loving and tender, "I love you, you freak. I really do."

With a peck to the tip of my nose, he gently disentangles himself to climb across to sit behind the wheel again, starts the car and, looking at the clock, he eyes me mock-sternly, "No more interruptions, now, or we'll be late."

Late for what? I wonder, but I know there's no point in asking, so I just sit back and close my eyes, letting the soft music and the road noise lure me into a pleasant drowsy state, and for a wonder he doesn't poke me awake.

The sound of the car door shutting wakes me up, and I sit up, rubbing sleep out of my eyes and looking around me to get my bearings. The car is stopped in the middle of nowhere and I can hear him rummaging in the boot, swearing quietly as he bangs assorted parts of his body in the process. God but he's a hopeless klutz!

The boot closes with a resounding 'thunk' and he comes around to open my door and smile at me, offering me his hand, "Morning, sleepy head!” He's carrying a humongous bag slung across his shoulder, making him look like a little kid on his way to school as he lists to one side to balance it.

"What's in there?" I ask, taking his hand and getting out of the car, and here I am, being tugged along again, this time through scrubby underbrush, "And where are we going?" My only answer, as expected, is a cheerful, "You'll see." so I take the bag off him—by god, it weighs a ton, what has the mad little sod put in it?—so I can put my arm around his waist, and we walk along a barely visible path revealed by the small torch he pulls out of his pocket.

After a few minutes of successful tramping along without being mauled by wolves, we reach a grassy clearing and he turns to me, taking the bag and dumping it on the ground, eyes bright with excitement, "Here we are!" With an inner sigh, I look around, seeing little more than grass and an uneven circle of trees in the dim light, and hearing waves breaking somewhere below us, "Where is here?"

I turn back to him when he doesn't answer, to find him kneeling on the ground, intent in pulling our fancy pop-up tent and assorted camping gear out of the bag and setting everything up in the middle of the clearing, "We are camping?" Looking up at me, he grins, his sharp features casting deep shadows in the torchlight, "Kinda. Now, get your arse over here and help me set up."

He has me well trained, and I do as I'm told. In no time, the tent is up and pegged securely down, the sleeping bags are zipped together and laid on the groundsheet, and I'm on my hands and knees half in, half out of the tent turning on our high-tech propane camping heater and placing it out of harm's way in a corner. Looking proudly down at his—our—handywork, he pats my bum, "Come on, get in, then."

Muttering, "Bossy boots." I comply, nonetheless, and before I know what's happening, he's tackled me to the ground on top of the sleeping bags and is attacking my mouth with his, saying, "Fucking finally!" For a couple of seconds I'm paralyzed by surprise, but then instinct takes over and my arms close around him, pulling him to me, and I kiss him back with a desperate hunger that hasn't been blunted by all our years together.

Soon he has my jumper and tee bunched up to my armpits, and his deft fingers are making fast work of my belt and my fly. I look up at him as he kneels to pull my clothes off, and it's not the pre-dawn cold that makes my skin pebble with goosebumps—the tent is now quite cosy, ta very much, the little heater does pack a punch. There is something in his eyes as he stares down at my body that makes my balls tighten and my cock twitch up from where it lies on my belly.

Now that he has my attention, he takes off his own clothes, his innate clumsiness conspicuous by its absence despite the cramped space as he performs a slow strip. My mouth dries up with raw lust as his narrow frame and pale skin are revealed. He glows in the muted red light from the heater as he kneels in front of me to run his hands down his chest, lingering on his beautiful dark nipples, and I whimper as he pinches them between thumb and forefinger, his eyes rolling back and his mouth going slack as he releases a low moan.

His slender hands move gracefully, hypnotically, over his body, tracing the bumps and ridges of his ribcage, fluttering over the sensitive skin of his tummy to circle his navel and down to follow the barely there trail of soft dark hair. I fist my hands, nails digging painfully into my palms, to stop myself from jumping him right where he kneels, and force myself to watch and appreciate every second of this glorious performance he's putting on for me.

His eyes open again then, half lidded, pupils already blown, and he looks at me, his hand closing around his cock, the sound of two sharp intakes of breath loud in the still air of the tent. I make a move towards him, but his eyes stop me in my tracks, and I content myself with sitting cross-legged across from him.

He is definitely the one in control right now: I am painfully hard and weeping and he hasn't even touched me yet. I deliberately place my hands under my thighs and sit on them, I know he won't allow me to touch myself and, even if he did, I'm afraid I'll spill all over the groundsheet with the first tug.

I bite my lip and struggle to breathe as he sits back on his heels and starts to stroke himself languorously as I watch him, purring deep in his throat. The purr morphs into a low growl as he starts to speed up his strokes and brings his other hand to fondle his balls, and my eyes close of their own accord, my brain on sensory overload.

"Open your eyes." he commands, his voice thick and heavy. I know by its timbre and the cadence of his breath that he's close, so I force my eyes open; the sight of him coming undone by his own hand is not something I want to miss. Ever.

Once he feels my eyes on him, he loses all restraint, and I don't know where to look, trying to take him in all at once. One hand works his cock feverishly, the other moving to pinch his nipples; muscles flex and tense under his skin, taut abs and wiry thighs rippling with strain; his back arches, exquisite neck cording as his head falls back; his face tightens, and he curls in on himself, pain and ecstasy straining sharp features as he spurts, fucking his fist to ride his orgasm.

For a moment neither of us moves, our breathing heavy and laboured, the smell of sweat and sex and our combined scents heavy in the heated air, and I feel dizzy with an overwhelming need to bury myself deep inside him.

Before I can fight my way out of the lust-driven stupor to which he has reduced me, he uncoils and crawls sinuously across to me. I watch in a daze as he straddles me, and my eyes widen to the size of small dinner plates as he gathers the come that clings to his belly and strokes his come-slicked hand over my cock, saying, "In me. Now."

My deep-seated instinct to protect him from himself kicks in, and I'm suddenly alert, "No. You're not p..." My voice breaks in an embarrassingly high pitched squeak as his hand guides mine to his arse and my fingers feel the contour of the butt plug lodged between his cheeks. "Yes, I am." he purrs in my ear as he grinds against me, "Pull it out for me."

Well, blow me!

I don't know where I find the strength not to rip the thing off him. Instead, I remove it with slow care, his teeth sharp on my shoulder as he whimpers at being stretched and emptied. Not empty for long, though. With a deep, satisfied sigh, he lifts his eyes to mine and, bracing his arms on my shoulders, lowers himself onto me, beautiful face sharpened in concentration, moist lips parted as he takes me in slowly, his warmth welcoming and accommodating as it sheaths me.

The wonder and awe that fill me at having his body envelop me, seeing the love in his eyes, feeling the brush of his lips on mine and his hands roaming my skin, never leave me, undiminished by time or habit. He is my still place, my oasis, my comfort and my joy, and my love for him soars every time our bodies meld into one.

Once I'm buried deep inside him he combs his fingers through my hair and smiles at me, a hint of a smile on his lips, "Surprised?" I nod, smiling at him like a loon, "You could have knocked me over with a feather." and he giggles, which, given the situation, has me curling my toes painfully and whimpering as I tense to stop myself from blowing the surprise, as it were. "Oh, lord." I breathe out, panting, "Love, if you're not careful this will be the shortest shag ever."

Eyebrow quirked, he leans in to kiss me, his lips curling into a grin on mine, "Don't worry, old man, I'll take it slowly so you can keep up with me." That earns him a slap on his arse, and immediately I wish I hadn't, because it does not help the issue of my staying power. At all.

The way the kinky little pervert moans and arches and contracts his inner muscles around me could make a granite statue shoot its load, and it takes all I have not to do just that. Once I'm back in control of myself I tighten my arms around him, mock-growling, "Behave." and he pouts at me, "Spoilsport."

Any witty comeback I might have had slips from my grasp, my brain scattering into a million pieces as he starts moving excruciatingly slowly, lifting off me until the tip of my cock is just barely kissing his hole and then, just as slowly, taking me back in. And again. And again. And again. Until my jaw hurts from grinding my teeth, and I feel as though every muscle, every tendon, is about to snap with the mindblowing build up of pleasure.

I know that he can keep this up for ever, when he's in the right mood, dangling me on the edge until I'm begging for release. But I know instinctively that this, right now, is not about control. Yes, he's setting the pace, but he's soft and tender, his eyes intent on me, his body, his hands, his mouth, instruments of my pleasure.

He's using his knowledge of my body, of every minute motion and gesture and sound to guide him and, just as I've reached the point where I can't take it any more and I'm about to beg, he stops the maddening cadence and arches into me, brushing his lips along my jaw to my ear, and my eyes flutter close, a shiver running down my spine as he says, "Lay me down, I want to feel your weight on me."

I rearrange us until he's stretched on the sleeping bags, cradling my body between his thighs, and I brace myself on my elbows to look at him. He looks like a fallen angel, his ethereal beauty overlaid by the sinful aura he projects, eyes filled with lust, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed, skin shining with our mingled sweat.

I can't help myself, I need to taste him. I lick along the prominent tendon in his neck and follow the elegant line of his jaw as he squirms under me, my tongue rasping on soft chin stubble on my way to his lips, and he pants into my mouth as I start rocking my hips,

"Deeper." he urges me, hitching one leg up over my hip, and I respond to the unspoken plea by hooking my arm under his knee and bringing it up over my shoulder, my weight pushing his thigh all the way against his chest as I sink into him. I'm as deep as I'll ever be, and he feels perfect, tight and warm and as smooth as fine silk.

I snap my hips, and he cries out, a long, drawn out moan, his nails clawing at my back blurring the line between pleasure and pain.

"Oh god, do th... Nnnnnnhhhhhggg"

Yes. Perfect angle. And the way he tightens around me makes my toes curl, my fingers fisting in his hair and my mouth claiming his, the spinning molten heat at my core gathering momentum as I worship him with my body.

I lose myself in him. All that matters is his body moving with mine; the scent and taste of his skin; the texture of his tongue as it slides on mine, the sharpness of his teeth on my lower lip; the velvet slide of his weeping cock between us, leaving wet trails on my belly; the gentle touch of slender fingers on my face, their steel grip on my arms; the sex-roughened huskiness of his voice as he urges me on, the way it breaks as pleasure overtakes him.

He curls into me, tendons standing out on his neck as he cries out my name, his hands leaving bruises on my shoulders, and his flesh fluttering and tightening around me as sticky warmth spurts between us, setting off my release.

Lights explode behind my closed eyelids as I bury myself deep into him one last time, my body arching impossibly at the onslaught of sensation. The tight coil at the base of my spine finally gives with a snap and lava rushes through my veins as I empty myself into him, burying my face in the crook of his neck to muffle my ecstatic cries.

He lets his legs flop off me with a sigh and holds me to him as I lay drained and unable to move, combing his fingers soothingly through my hair and humming quietly to himself, and I want to stay like this, in his arms, content, warm, loved up, for ever.

Alas, that is never going to happen, my beautiful love is unable to do 'still' for longer than a couple of minutes, and sure enough, soon his toes are scratching at my legs, and his body shifting under mine in tiny increments. I smile into the skin of his neck, muttering, "Wrigglebum." and he giggles, making me hiss as his muscles grip my softening and extremely sensitive cock.

I take it as a sign, and lift myself on shaky arms to pull slowly out of him, and he whimpers at being emptied as I roll to lie by his side. "Come here." I demand softly, gathering him into my arms and kissing him briefly, "Now, consider me duly and pleasantly surprised, but are you going to tell me what this was all about?" He gives me one of his inscrutable looks and, without a word, reaches out to unzip the tent's flap, letting the golden dawn light stream in.

All my breath leaves my chest in an audible rush as I look out, memories flooding me as I realise where we are, and I finally understand why we are right here, right now, at this specific confluence of time and space. Why he rushed me out of bed and drove us across half the country so we could make it here before dawn. I flop onto my back, staring at him open mouthed, shaking my head in wonder.

Trust him.

Trust him to remember. To plot and plan and keep it to himself until the last minute. To make it work. To surprise the breath out of me. To make me love him even more.

And, damn his eyes, I tear up when, just the way he did as the sun was breaching the horizon that dawn twenty years ago, he straddles me and, bracing his hands on either side of my head, leans over to kiss me, whispering, "I love you." into my lips.

"I swear to god," I say, my voice uneven, sitting up to hug him to me, "I couldn't love you more if I tried, and yet, whenever I think it is impossible to love you any more than I already do, you go and do something like this and prove me wrong all over again."

I don't even know whether that makes any sense, all I know is that I hurt deep inside with love for him, and that the only way to ease that pain is to drown myself in him, so I kiss him. I kiss him with the same passion and hunger and need as I did all those years ago, until we are both breathless and panting into one another's mouths.

He smiles at me then, that smile of his that melts my insides, and his fingers flutter lightly on my face in an unbearably tender caress as he says, "Happy twentieth first shag anniversary."

 

 

 


End file.
